The Children of Time Will Gather
by Lindenharp
Summary: After the events of "Journey's End", the Doctor's friends and companions gather together to remember the past and to prepare for the future. When a crisis arises, they must work together to avert disaster. Rated "T" for language.
1. Chapter 1

Author's note: This takes place after "Journey's End", so SPOILER ALERT for that episode and for "The Stolen Earth". Please note that pizzas similar to the one described below really exist, and can be found on the menus of actual British pizzerias. Any readers who consume such pizzas without access to advanced alien medical technology do so at their own risk, and the author will not be held responsible for the consequences.

Their first meeting is at a private memorial service for Harriet Jones. The public ceremony is a State funeral, with all the attendant pomp and circumstance: horse-drawn cortege, Westminster Abbey, world leaders by the dozens and dignitaries by the hundreds. It seems fitting. Former Prime Minister Harriet Jones was not the only prominent person to die while fighting the Dalek invasion, but hers was the most recognizable face, and the most understandable role. She had operated the communications device that had summoned help from a "friendly alien species" – the official explanation, simplified but true – leading to the defeat of the Daleks and the return of Planet Earth.

Jack says simply, "She was ready when trouble came, she called for help, and she stayed at her post to the end. That was one classy lady." He raises a glass of whiskey from a bottle that has been sitting unopened in his room in the Hub for several decades. He's been saving it for a special occasion, and today certainly qualifies.

_This_ memorial gathering is much smaller and much more exclusive. No heads of state, ambassadors, or generals here; no one whose name or face is known to the public, just a small group of people who helped to save the world. Again.

The group is incomplete, though it includes most of those who still reside in this universe. Martha, Jack, Gwen, Ianto, Mickey, Sarah Jane, and Luke are all there. The gathering is at Sarah Jane's. She's the only one of them who actually owns a house, and this is the easiest way for K-9 and Mr. Smith to be present. An invitation was sent to Wilf – for his own sake, as well as a sort of representative for Donna. No one is surprised that he turned it down. He's not ready yet.

Martha is the only one who knows that Jack used his superphone to leave a message for the Doctor. Neither of them expected the Time Lord to put in an appearance, but Jack felt it was important to give him the opportunity. "They didn't part on the best of terms," is Jack's understated summary of the Doctor's last conversation with Harriet. "On the _Valiant_, he used to tell me he regretted that." Later, when they all visit the grave together, they find a wreath of white flowers with a glorious, ethereal scent. Jack identifies them as stardust lilies from the planet Florana. The attached card contains a handwritten note in a geometric script that several of them recognize, and none of them can read. Ianto suggests taking it for the Torchwood archives. Jack gives him The Look, and Ianto's hand draws back as swiftly as if the small square of paper is lethal to touch. (When Jack's attention is diverted, Ianto snaps a picture of it with his phone camera.)

There are toasts to absent friends – both living and dead – and reminiscences. Mickey describes how Harriet ordered the missile strike on Downing Street when the old Doctor could not, and how she confronted the Sycorax on behalf of the human race. They fill in the gaps in each other's knowledge of the crisis. Gwen, Ianto, and Luke describe the tense hours of waiting on Earth; the others explain events aboard the Dalek Crucible.

The conversation turns to other, older adventures; some involving the Doctor, some not. As he expected, Jack does much of the talking. He's three times the age of the next-oldest person in the room, and he has a lot of stories to tell. Some of those stories are not his own, but ones that he heard from Rose and the Doctor. Gwen Cooper is amazed to learn why the Time Lord was interested in her family history. Martha avoids mentioning the Year That Never Was, but she has other tales, both sombre (Daleks in 1930s Manhattan) and humorous (flirting with William Shakespeare). Her anecdotes about UNIT – and Ianto's Torchwood stories – told in front of civilians with no security clearances, technically violate the Official Secrets Act so many times over that they would all have to be immortals to serve the minimum sentences.

When Sarah Jane starts reminiscing, Jack's jaw nearly hits the floor. He's hacked into the files concerning her former post with UNIT, knows that she had travelled with the Doctor in his third and fourth incarnations for a time period of more than four linear years, and that she has been in the middle of some major alien-contact crises. He's also heard Mickey's account of "the ex vs. the missus" squabble that happened at Deffry Vale School. _My monsters are bigger and scarier than _your_ monsters._ None of it prepares him for the full story.

It takes a few hours and a few drinks. Normally, Sarah Jane is very restrained (setting a good example for Luke), but the past week has been anything but normal, even by _her_ standards. After the third glass of Arexxian brandy, she explains her brief conversation with Davros. Jack blinks. She hasn't merely encountered Daleks twice before; she was on Skaro to witness their creation. She has visited Gallifrey, met Cybermen, Sontarans, and giant spiders; and survived an encounter with a vengeful Osiran god. Jack remembers his offhand, almost patronising, "Nice job with the Slitheen", and wonders if Ianto had slipped a stupid pill in his morning coffee that day. It is a terrible mistake to treat this woman as a well-meaning amateur, just because she dislikes guns and carries a sonic lipstick.

At some point in the evening, someone utters the cliché line, "We should do this again sometime." There are murmurs of agreement. It's Ianto – clever, practical Ianto – who points out that there are good reasons why they should do it again. "There aren't enough people trained in dealing with alien threats. In the last few years, it's not just UNIT and Torchwood that have suffered losses… most of the academic and technical experts in the field were done in by the Slitheen and the Sontarans." There are nods all around the room.

"Harriet knew that it was important for the Doctor's friends to be able to communicate with each other," Martha says.

Jack shrugs. "We've got the subwave network. It will take a little while to rebuild the hardware, but that's a small detail."

"It's not just the hardware, Jack," Gwen says. "We have to be able to work together, whether the Doctor shows up or not. That's another thing that Harriet was right about – he can't always be here. Big universe, this. I'm sure we're not the only planet he keeps an eye on."

"We're not – but Earth is special to him." Sarah Jane pitches her voice deeper and richer, with a posh accent. "It may be irrational of me, but human beings are quite my favourite species."

…..

The post-invasion chaos is keeping them all busy, and it's over a month later before they can gather again, this time at Ianto's flat in Cardiff. Sarah Jane is leery about entering the Hub. "The meeting will come to order," Jack intones with mock solemnity.

"Disorder, more likely," Sarah Jane mutters. "I don't think we need Robert's Rules, Jack. We're not a real organization."

"Yeah. Don't even have a name," Mickey points out.

Gwen looks thoughtful. "Harriet Jones called us 'the Doctor's secret army'".

"A bit Harry Potter, that," Ianto says, wrinkling his nose. "Like Dumbledore's Army."

"No armies, thank you very much," Sarah Jane replies crisply, with a sidelong glance at Luke.

Jack smiles at her. "I don't have a phoenix on hand, but we could be the Order of the Pterodactyl." His smile broadens, and his eyes are bright with mischief. "When are you going to visit the Hub and see my pterodactyl, Sarah Jane Smith?"

Luke is thrilled. "You have a real pterodactyl? Mum, can we—"

Sarah is not amused. "You fight dirty, Captain Harkness."

He tilts his chair back against the wall, as comfortable as a cat on a sunny windowsill. "Whatever it takes to accomplish the goal. Learned _that_ lesson a long time before I met the Doctor."

"And what did you learn _from_ him?"

It's an honest question, not an attack, so Jack gazes into the middle distance, giving the question the time and thought it deserves. Finally, his blue eyes meet her brown ones, and he says, "Trust. I learned how to trust. And you?"

"Everything ends. Everything has its time… but until that time, you never give up. Never give up fighting or hoping."

Jack nods. The next voice surprises him.

"Improvise. If you don't know what to do, fake it until an opportunity comes along." Ianto smiles apologetically. "I was working at Torchwood One in London on that day. I was only an archivist, so I never got near him. That probably saved my life." His mouth twitches. "Later, when I could bear to watch, I went through the security camera footage. I wanted to understand, especially when I found out…" He gestures vaguely at Jack. "Anyway. The Doctor didn't know in advance about Torchwood. He was a prisoner the moment he walked out of the TARDIS. He had no weapons, only that harmless sonic screwdriver device—" Jack grins, but says nothing. "—and Yvonne Hartmann was clever and ruthless. He should have been… well, not helpless, but much more confused. He didn't even have a plan."

"Mate, don't you know? The Doctor's most dangerous when he's got no plan," Mickey says.

Ianto nods. "Sorry to keep blabbing on. I know I'm not really a member of the club. It's not as though I've ever been in the TARDIS, or met the Doctor in person—"

Sarah Jane waves his excuses away. "Liz Shaw – she was in UNIT a few years before me – never set foot in the TARDIS. The Doctor was in exile, and the Time Lords had blocked his knowledge of time travel."

"Not everyone who gets on board is worth the oxygen they use. There was a guy before me," Jack says, "who nearly got Rose killed. Tried to phone home with future information, so he could get rich quick." He shakes his head, amazed. "He was actually alive and breathing when the Doctor took him home."

Mickey is smiling to himself. Rose told him about Adam the stupid git during the long hours of waiting aboard the crazy ship with the fireplace. Made him realize that there were worse things to be than a tin dog.

"_Anyway_," Sarah Jane says firmly, grabbing back control of the conversation, "the Doctor never forgets anyone who helps him, Ianto. He's going to remember you as… 'that clever lad from Cardiff who operated the Rift Manipulator, and helped tow the Earth back home.' Trust me, he regards you as a real member of the club."

Jack grins. "A card-carrying member of the Order of the Pterodactyl."

"We haven't _got_ cards," Mickey says, just as Sarah Jane protests, "We are _not_ calling ourselves that silly name."

"Do we even _need_ a name?" Gwen asks. "Just to have some chats?"

Luke speaks up for the first time since the discussion began. "What about 'Friends of the Doctor'?"

Jack shakes his head. "Sorry, kid. That sounds like some kind of twelve-step group, or a bunch of soppy protesters. Not my style at all."

"The Children of Time." Everyone turns to look at Martha. "That's what Dalek Caan called us in his prophecy."

Jack is incredulous. "Martha, do you really want to take a name from something a Dalek said?"

"Wasn't exactly an ordinary Dalek," Mickey points out. "He was on our side. Helped us to sort out Davros."

"Okay, so he was a crazy Dalek. Is that supposed to make it better?"

"Dalek Caan was a soothsayer," Sarah Jane says softly, as if thinking aloud, "which is a fancy word for 'teller of truth'. Truth is important, wherever it comes from, whoever speaks it."

"I second the motion." Ianto looks surprised at his own daring.

Jack shrugs. "All in favour?" There is a chorus of ayes. "The motion passes. The Children of Time. CoT for short. Next on the agenda?"

The discussion is brief but spirited, since they are a group of strong-willed, intelligent people with firm opinions. But they also understand the importance of teamwork, and eventually, a compromise is reached: three pizzas. One plain. One mushroom. One "breakfast special" with tomato sauce, mozzarella cheese, egg, bacon, chives, Cumberland sausage, and sliced black pudding.

…..

The next meeting of COT is via subwave. The Londoners are in Sarah Jane's house; the Cardiff contingent are in the Hub. Wilf is with the London group. He chats happily with the others, though he barely knows them. "The thing is, if you try to talk to somebody about aliens, half the time it turns out they're a nutter, and half the time, they think _you're_ a nutter. I was that chuffed when my Donna started to show an interest." He pauses just for a split second, then carries on. "Sylvia tried to say that it would have been better if Donna had never met _him_, but I told her to hush up. I said, where would you or I be – not to mention the rest of the Earth – if our Donna hadn't been there to help the Doctor."

Martha smiles. "Quite right."

The evening's topic is "So, you've got a new Time Lord". Mickey starts out with a mock-erudite lecture that sounds like a cross between Monty Python and a presenter on a dog training show, before leading a serious discussion of regeneration crises. Sarah Jane adds what little she remembers about the fourth regeneration, but most of the talking is done by the team of Jones & Jones (doctor and archivist). Mickey adds vivid anecdotes about long hours spent with a Time Lord who was alternately comatose and manic before saving the world in his jammies. Jack makes sure that everyone is aware of the benefits of a nice cuppa, and the deadly perils of aspirin.

They settle on Saturday evenings as the regular COT meeting time. The following week, Jack's subject is "Between a Time Lord and a hard place". They talk about the difficulty of dealing with Earth authorities on the one hand; and on the other, an alien who recognizes no higher authority than his own moral code.

"You have to remember, even when his own Time Lord government still existed, he usually ignored or even defied them." Sarah Jane says. She pauses, remembering. "Although he was rather respectful when Rassilon spoke to him." There is a another pause in the conversation as Jack attempts to recover from nearly inhaling half a pint of beer.

Martha adds, "And then there's the joy of trying to convince elderly generals that the daft-sounding man who looks to be half their age really _is_ a 900-year-old alien with an IQ in the millions. They _know_ it, but they have always seem to have trouble believing it."

"How did he ever manage to stay with UNIT so long, back in the 70s and 80s?" Gwen wants to know.

Sarah Jane replies, "It helped that the Doctor and the Brigadier respected each other. They were good friends, though I don't think they'd have used that word." By now, the other Children of Time know that when Sarah Jane says 'The Brigadier' with no surname attached, she means Lethbridge-Stewart, aka 'The Definite Article'. "Besides, he didn't have much of a choice. The Time Lords left him stranded. UNIT gave him a place to stay, assistants to bring him tea and sympathy, a way to help people, and a secure spot to keep the TARDIS."

"And it kept _him_ safe – though he probably didn't realize it," Ianto adds. "I know from the records that there was a lot of manoeuvring for control of the Doctor between UNIT and Torchwood."

Jack snorts. "There used to be a recording in the archives of a conversation between Lethbridge-Stewart and a former Torchwood director. The Director tried to tell the Brigadier that it was his duty to Queen and Country to turn the 'enemy alien' over to Torchwood."

Sarah's expression says that she would have given a million pounds to have overheard _that_ discussion.

"What did the Brigadier say?"

"After he stopped cursing a blue streak?" Jack intercepts Sarah's startled glance. "Sarah, the Brig's old-school – an officer and a gentleman would never use foul language around a lady, but he swears just like any other soldier when it's only the boys around. He pointed out that first, as a member of UNIT, his chain of command ended in Geneva, not London; second, that whatever misconceptions Queen Victoria might have held, Her _current_ Majesty was well aware of the Doctor's contributions to the defence of her realm; and third, if the Director didn't shut his fat gob, he might find himself trying to pick his teeth off the floor… _after _pulling his head out of his ass." Jack grins. "That last bit is a paraphrase. The actual dialog was a bit longer and much more colourful."

…..

And so it continues, week after week. Some meetings last until late in the night. Some meetings are hardly more than ten-minute roll calls, with some how-are-yous tossed in. Not everyone can be there every week, even with the subwave. Sometimes they quarrel – usually one on one, but occasionally it's a team sport, a verbal rugby scrum.

They don't _do _anything, other than talk. Despite the brief invocation of Robert's rules at the second meeting, COT has no defined purpose. Or maybe it would be better to say that they know intuitively what its purpose is, and what it is not. It is not meant to duplicate the work of UNIT, Torchwood, and S.J. Smith & Co., Ltd. It is meant only to keep the Doctor's friends ready to help him and each other when needed.

The need comes sooner than expected. On a dreary Tuesday in November, the subwave signal chimes. The signal comes from Mickey. He doesn't wait for greetings. "Have you seen this?" In his hand is a folded newspaper. A quarter-page advertisement on an inner page screams, "We know who stole our planet… but who brought it back?" Beside a blurry photo of a Dalek is a large red question mark. The text below promises an answer to the question in the Sunday edition.

"You're worried about _that_?" Jack scoffs. "That kind of nonsense has been all over the Internet since the day after we got back. Every looney tune on the planet has a theory about the 'friendly alien species' that saved us from the Daleks."

"This is different," Mickey insists. "First of all, the article is gonna be written by Gareth Linton. People listen to him. But the worst thing is, he's got a real source – some bloke who was on the _Valiant_ when the Master died. He _remembers_ the Doctor. And word is, he has photos, too."

"People won't believe it," Sarah Jane says, but her voice lacks conviction.

"Will it matter… if they do believe it?" Ianto wants to know. "I'm sure the Doctor would hate the fuss, the publicity, but it couldn't _hurt_ him, could it?"

Wilf mutters a short, vicious phrase that makes Sarah Jane glad that Luke is still in school. "Never mind him. What about my Donna? What's it going to do to her if she sees a picture of the Doctor? She won't read the newspaper, but by Monday morning, it'll be all over the telly and the Internet, and all her girlfriends will be chattering about it." He adds, in a voice that is a shrill parody, "Ooo, he isn't half cute, this Doctor. Says here he's the 'Saviour of the Earth', He can save _me_ any time, is what I say.' If she sees that, she's gonna remember."

Gwen's pale face has gone a shade whiter. "And if she remembers, she'll die."

_tbc_


	2. Chapter 2

_"And if she remembers, she'll die."_

There is a split second of horrified silence, and then the babble begins. Everyone knows about Donna's biological metacrisis and the Doctor's radical treatment. The Doctor left identical voicemail messages for Martha and Jack, before he disappeared into the Vortex, with strict instructions to share the information with everyone who needed to know.

Jack's voice cuts through the hubbub like a blaster through butter. "Okay, people, we don't have time for this." The noise subsides into murmurs. "How much time _do_ we have?"

Everyone looks at Sarah Jane. "Before he sends it in to layout? Assuming that he wants to keep a very tight lid on this – and he must do – late Saturday night."

"Okay. I assume you have contacts at the newspaper? Friends?"

"On the _Chronicle_? Yes, of course. Linton isn't one of them – we've met at conferences, and he'd probably recognize me, but we're not exactly best mates."

"But if you were to call him, ask for a word, he'd talk to you?" She nods. "Okay. Don't call him yet, but maybe you could chat up some of your buddies at the _Chronicle_, find out what the after-work pub gossip has to say about this mysterious article."

Jack turns his attention to Mickey. "I need details! What does he know, what does he think he knows, and how the _hell_ did he find out?"

"I only know a small bit of it. The bloke from the _Valiant_ came into Stevo's garage, looking for a job. He was pensioned off from UNIT for 'medical reasons'. Good with his hands, and he wants to keep working. Name's Chris Turner. He was part of the original _Valiant_ crew, not one of Saxon's bully boys. He worked in engineering, and the Master left him on the job. Good mechanics are hard to find – 'specially if you need someone who knows how to maintain an orbital carrier." Mickey was in the alternate universe during the Year That Never Was, but Jack and Martha have filled him in on the basics. If CoT were ever to adopt a motto, it would probably be "Ignorance is bliss – until the moment it gets you killed".

Jack shakes his head. "Don't remember seeing him, but then, I didn't exactly get out to socialize much. Martha--?"

"Let me guess. You want me to save you the trouble of hacking into UNIT personnel files?"

"Though I'd hate for Ianto to miss out on a chance to practice his skills—" The young Welshman rolls his eyes heavenwards. "—it would save time, Also, I was hoping you could talk to your family, see what they know about Turner. They might have talked to him during meals, or while they were cleaning."

"Right. Tish is away on a job, but I'll talk to Mum and Dad."

"Thanks, Gorgeous." Jack's friendly leer doesn't fade as he turns to Ianto. "Ianto, I'm sure Mr. Linton owns a computer or two. See what you can find. Don't delete or change anything, and watch out for tripwires. This guy writes about aliens – we don't want to encourage any paranoid feelings about Men in Black."

It surprises no one that Jack has taken command. They are all strong, independent people who can work alone or as part of a group, but Jack has the most experience leading a team. He asks a few more questions, assigns a few more tasks, and then the subwave monitors go dark.

…..

The drive from Cardiff to London is two hours of white-knuckle terror, during which Gwen rediscovers long-forgotten childhood prayers. Ianto is staying behind to guard the Hub; besides, most of his contributions to the mission can be done from anywhere, as long as he has a computer.

They gather at Mickey's flat. No one has any startling news. One by one, they report what they know. Most of Linton's notes seem to be stored, not on his work or home computers, but on a PDA that is always with him. The notes that _are _accessible are alarming enough. This man knows what happened on board the _Valiant_. Thanks to Chris Turner, he has photos of the Doctor. And he has pieced together a reasonable explanation of the return of the stolen Earth.

Turner was a "nice boy," Martha reports. Francine and Clive sometimes spoke to him at meals in the _Valiant_'s mess – the crew's mess; the officers' mess being reserved for the use of the guards, and for visiting government lackeys. After the Year That Never Was, he was invalided out with post-traumatic stress disorder.

"Not much happened to him personally," Martha said. "He was pretty safe down there in engineering. The Master didn't touch the people he really needed, if they were hard to replace. And he was a single bloke, with no family."

It was the Burning of Japan that broke him, a horror that had been a watershed moment for people all over the world. When the Japanese islands went up in flame, thousands of desperate people were provoked to rebellion, only to be cut down by giggling Toclafane. Millions more sank into despair, now certain of their utter helplessness. Like other members of the _Valiant_'s crew, Chris Turner was forced to watch the carnage on giant television screens, while the Master sang and whirled and strutted in a triumphant dance. Turner had enough strength and self-discipline to keep himself working and useful, and if he sometimes woke screaming in the night – well, that was a common enough sound on the good ship _Valiant_.

"All right," Jack says, a little more curtly than necessary, "before we get buried in details, let's talk about objectives and strategy."

"We know the bleedin' objective," Wilf says. "It's 'keep Donna safe'."

"Worst case scenario – we keep her from hearing about the article," Martha suggests.

Jack's laugh has very little mirth in it. "What – send her scuba-diving again, and hope she doesn't come up at the wrong moment?"

"Protective custody in a UNIT safe-house."

"Is that what they're calling them now?" Jack growls. A blink of memory takes him back to a cold, bleak room, and a young woman in a shapeless red boiler suit.

Martha follows his thoughts easily enough. She remembers her first visit to the Hub, where Toshiko Sato had been stiff and awkward in the presence of a visitor from UNIT. "I said a safe-house, Jack, not a prison. What's the alternative? Put her on ice in your morgue? Give her a cell next to Janet?"

"Jack, are you sure we can't just fix her?" That's Gwen, ever the peacemaker.

Jack paces the crowded room. "Look, we've been through this before, Gwen. I don't know if Donna's mind can be fixed. I'm damned sure that _we_ can't fix it. In this century, trained telepaths are about as rare as pacifist Sontarans. In my century— I really don't know. I'm not sure if even a level 12 forensic telepath could do it. Not a human one." He leans against the wall, not moving, but still managing to project restlessness.

"I know it would be a huge job, but wouldn't it be like weeding a garden? Just keep pulling out anything that doesn't belong?"

Despite his worry and frustration, Jack has to smile. "Gwen, love, it's not that simple. Damn! I love the man, but sometimes I wish he had pointy ears or blue skin. Martha, help me out, here. Did he ever—?" He touches his slightly cupped hands to his temples, miming telepathic contact.

She shakes her head. Mickey does the same, adding a slight shudder. "No, thank God."

"He did with me." Of course, it's Sarah Jane. "It was terrifying. The Doctor was as careful and gentle as can be, and he did it to save my life, but…" Although Sarah Jane makes her living with words, they are eluding her. "The problem wasn't that he could see my mind – it was that I could almost see his, and I knew that I could get lost, or worse."

"Like I said, wish he resembled a walking cactus or something. Gwen, you look at him, and you see somebody like me – guy from another time, lot brainier, almost as sexy – and you think you know who you are dealing with. You don't. That brain is meant to process thoughts that humans just can't handle. All that—"

"Wibbley wobbley, timey wimey stuff," Martha completes the sentence.

Wilf says, "In the service, in survival training, they taught us how to figure out what wild berries were safe to eat. They said, don't reckon that something is all right, just because you see a bird eatin' it. A bird can eat stuff that will do for you as fast as any enemy bullet. That's what Time Lord thoughts could do to my girl."

He rises from the sofa, strong and wiry, despite his years. "I'm not giving up on her getting better. Maybe the Doctor can do something when he comes back. Maybe not. But unless the Good Lord sends us a miracle in the next few days, we have to think of something else. And I am _not_ having her put in a deep freeze, or locked up somewhere. That's not living, and if there's anyone in the Universe who deserves to really live, it's my Donna."

His eyes sweep the room with a challenge. This is not a doting grandfather who sells newspapers and tinkers with telescopes. This is a man who used to jump out of aeroplanes into the deadly night; who went up against a Dalek, armed only with a paint gun.

Jack doesn't salute, but there is respect in his eyes as he face the older man. "Yes, sir. Okay people, I need some options here."

Ianto's voice comes clearly from the subwave monitor. "We have to deal with the article – either stop it being printed, or get it changed. Can it be officially suppressed on grounds of national or planetary security?"

Jack shakes his head. Not possible. "The government has other priorities right now, and Linton would just broker a deal with a paper in another country."

"Interfere with the writer, then?" There's a coldness in Mickey's voice that suggests what kind of interference he might be considering.

"Or reason with him?" Gwen suggests. "Bribe?"

"It would have to be a pretty big bribe," Sarah Jane says slowly, "for him to give up such a big story. This one is a career-maker. Money alone might not be enough."

In the monitor, Ianto's image leans closer. "Rule number one in bribery: know what the mark values most."

Jack shakes his head in mock astonishment. "Why, Ianto Jones, where would a nice boy like you learn such a thing?"

"I've been keeping very bad company, haven't I?" the younger man says, his face impassive. "So, what kind of bribe would entice Mr. Gareth Linton?"

"A title," Martha suggests. "Shouldn't be too hard to pull a few strings, and get him on the New Year's Honours list. Sir Gareth Linton might sound pretty good to him."

"Not that," Sarah Jane says, without hesitation. "It would have to be something career-related. A bigger story."

"A bigger story than the alien who saved the Universe? Universes," Gwen corrects herself.

"Much, much bigger," Jack assures her.

Martha and Ianto exchange glances. They both know what Jack wants. Silently, Martha relinquishes the role to the Welshman.

"And what would that bigger story be, sir?"

Jack's grin is huge, and just a bit predatory. "An interview with the aliens who _really_ saved the Universes."

_tbc_


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: The police box information is essentially correct, and the Flickr groups do exist.

_"An interview with the aliens who _really_ saved the Universes."_

"And who would those be?" Martha says in her best don't-argue-with-the-lunatic voice.

Jack shrugs. "Vorcarians, Vogons, Vorlons – we can discuss the minor details later. The important part is that the Earth was _not_ saved by a skinny guy in a pinstriped suit and trainers. I mean, how ridiculous is that? He didn't even have a lightsaber."

"How 'bout the Vulcans?" Mickey suggests. Despite the tension – or perhaps because of it – a wave of laughter goes around the room.

At a previous CoT meeting, Jack had reminisced about his first meeting with the Doctor. "It's a real pleasure to meet you, Mr. Spock," he'd said to the scowling man in the black leather jacket. Jack had quickly figured out that Rose had invented a pseudonym for her supposed Time Agent partner; it was all of twenty-seven years later – or more than a century in his personal timeline – before he'd realized where she'd gotten the name.

"No Vulcans,' Jack says, grinning at the memory. "Green isn't my colour."

"You mean that you're gonna—"

"Mickey, I don't know enough yet to know what I'm– what _we're_ gonna do. All I know is that we need to give Linton something else to write about. Something plausible, and something that won't hurt Donna." He grins again. "Hey, kids! I've got a Hub, and Ianto can sew costumes – let's put on a show."

Martha eyes him for a full ten seconds before speaking. "You're mental."

"That your professional opinion, Dr. Jones? I would've thought that a girl who flirted with Bill Shakespeare would have more appreciation for the theatre."

Sarah Jane looks wistful. "Shakespeare…"

Martha's return glance is apologetic. "Yeah, well… opening night of _Love Labour's Lost_. Loads of fun, except for what came after: murders, an alien invasion, and Queen Elizabeth yelling 'off with 'is head!'"

"Typical. Absolutely typical."

"Ladies, can we get back to the subject of modern theatre? I'm thinking we need a re-write of _All's Well That Ends Well_."

"_Comedy of Errors_, more like," Ianto mutters under his breath.

"We? Captain, you know perfectly well that you have every intention of being the playwright – and probably the star, too."

Jack turns the full force of his smile on Sarah Jane. "And I'm going to need a leading lady. _Not_ an ingénue, but someone who can convincingly portray an experienced investigative journalist." He looks at Gwen and Mickey. "A pair of cops would round out the cast nicely." Mickey laughs. Gwen looks nervous.

"Ianto – props and special effects. See what toys we've got in storage that might be impressive. Something discreet that can mimic innate abilities would be best. Wish we still had that telepath pendant…"

"Oi! What about me, then?" Wilf demands.

"That's why I need the cops, Wilf. You don't mind being arrested for murder, do you?"

…..

They spend an hour hammering out plot details. Gwen actually wants a script for her part. Jack doesn't know whether to laugh or to bury his face in his hands. "For the love of— Gwen, you haven't been with Torchwood _that_ long. Please don't tell me you've forgotten how to arrest someone. This isn't _The Bill _– it isn't even _The Mousetrap – _you won't have to make a speech."

Mickey, cast as the rookie cop, will have no lines. This suits him just fine. "But can I do the handcuffs?"

Wilf grimaces. "I suppose you must, me being a dangerous murderer and all."

"Not to worry, Mr. Mott," Ianto says, "I have a pair of handcuffs that I can lend. Very comfortable, they are." Gwen snickers, Jack smirks, and Ianto blushes a fiery red.

Jack is less amused when Wilf wants to provide his own gun. Normally, it's safest for someone to use a familiar weapon, but a fifty-year-old Webley Mark IV service revolver, however well-maintained, would not be his first choice. After some arguing, Jack reluctantly agrees, provided that the Webley passes his personal inspection. He also resolves to take Wilf onto the Hub's firing range for some practice rounds. The finest weapon on the planet won't do much good without a good eye and steady hands.

That settled, they move on to the next item of business. "We need to find out what Chris Turner knows, and what he passed on to Linton. Oh, and how the hell did he keep any memories to pass along?" After the Master's death, most of the UNIT personnel aboard the _Valiant_ had been debriefed, then retconned. At Jack and Martha's insistence, her family had been given a choice. They had chosen to remember. Considering his mental condition, Turner should not have been given that option.

"Turner was given retcon," Martha says. "It isn't foolproof, Jack. You know that." She looks pointedly at Gwen.

Jack acknowledges her point with a curt nod. "If you're resistant enough, and if there's a strong trigger, yeah."

"What was the trigger for Turner, then?" Gwen asks.

"A police box," Martha replies. "No, not the TARDIS – a real police telephone box. I thought somebody was having me on when I heard about it."

Gwen is wide-eyed with disbelief. "Don't tell me anyone still uses those old things!"

"Not since before you were born, darling," Jack assures her, "but there are still a handful sitting on street corners around the UK."

Ianto's hands dance over his keyboard. "There are at least two Flickr groups devoted to photos of old police boxes. Not all of them are quite the same style as the Doctor's TARDIS, but most are close enough. Hmm… over eighty of them in Edinburgh."

"That's where Turner saw one," Martha explains. "He went up to visit an old school mate. They went to a dance club one night, and the police box was on the pavement outside. The club had a red neon sign, flickering badly—"

"I guess that would do it," Jack says dryly. A police box with red lighting could certainly be a memory trigger for anyone who had seen the TARDIS hooked up to the Master's paradox machine.

…..

There's very little debate over who should talk to Turner. Of all the members of CoT, Jack and Martha are the only ones who remember the Year That Never Was. The others have been told the essential details, but little more. Martha has shared a few innocuous stories: a lucky escape in Prague, a family who sheltered her in Guadalajara, a breathtaking sunrise in the ruins of a Buddhist monastery in Thailand. She has not spoken about the village in Dijon that was torched just on suspicion of aiding her, or the college students who let themselves be cut to bloody shreds by Toclafane to cover her retreat from Chicago. And she knows without asking that Jack has not told his Torchwood colleagues about the hundreds of horrific deaths he suffered as the Master's plaything.

On the drive to Hackney, they discuss how to handle the questioning. "Good cop, bad cop?" Jack suggests.

"I'm a doctor, not a cop." she reminds him. "Turner is UNIT personnel, and I'm their Medical Officer. He's my responsibility, and if he's remembering the Year then he's not in very good psychological shape."

"If he remembers the Year," Jack growls, "then he must remember the Doctor and what he did for this world – and he's got no excuse for selling him to a damned reporter."

Sometimes, Martha muses, Jack has too little patience for the weakness of others. Courage and self-sacrifice are so much a part of him – many of the deaths he endured were deliberately provoked, to distract the Master's attention from the Doctor – that he expects them from others. "Try to behave yourself, all right? Remember, we need to get information from the man."

"Yes, mother." Jack sing-songs in a syrupy falsetto. "We'll get the information, and _then_ I'll shove the thirty pieces of silver down the bastard's throat."

He calms down by the time they arrive at Chris Turner's flat. When that door swings open, Martha smiles, ready to deliver her "Dr. Jones from UNIT" introduction.

She never gets a chance. The man in the doorway goes very still, except for his widening eyes, which dart back and forth between his two visitors. "The Messenger," he breathes reverently. "The Messenger and the Angel of Death." Wordlessly, he waves them inside. Only when they are inside the sitting-room, and the door is safely shut, does he speak again. "Have you brought word from Him? Or are you here to kill me?"


	4. Chapter 4

"_Have you brought word from Him? Or are you here to kill me?"_

Jack pushes his way into the room, snapping at Martha to shut the door. He slams Turner against the nearest wall, and frisks the unresisting man for weapons. Nothing. With his own gun in hand, he gestures at the shabby sofa. "Sit."

Turner sits, folding his hands in his lap. His face is watchful but calm.

"All right, you worthless son-of-a-bitch," Jack growls, "we've got questions for you." He holsters his weapon, but makes sure that it's still visible.

"Do you know who we are?" Martha asks.

"You mean, do I know your worldly names? Martha Jones and Jack Harkness," he recites, like an obedient schoolboy. "I also know who you truly are." He smiles at Martha. "The Messenger. The World-Walker. The Bringer of Hope." Turning to Jack, his voice becomes more solemn. "And the Angel of Death. The Warrior. The Eternal Sacrifice. And you two are the greatest servants of the Lord."

"The Lord?" Jack asks, though he already knows the answer.

"The Lord of Time. The Healer of the World." Turner's voice drops to a whisper, as if he is saying something improper. "The Doctor."

A voice echoes in Jack's mind, a dry, sardonic voice with a northern accent. _"Don't worship me - I'd make a very bad god."_

"Chris…." Martha's voice is gentle. "The Doctor isn't a god."

Turner blinks in confusion. "Of course not, ma'am. He's the Archangel Raphael."

…..

It takes a while to understand Turner's convoluted religious cosmology, tangled as it is with bits of metaphysics, occultism, pantheism, and other isms that Jack barely recognizes. The essence of his belief is that the Doctor is an avatar of Raphael: the archangel whose name means "God heals". He was sent to free the Earth from Apollyon the Destroyer ("Three guesses who that is," Martha whispers to Jack). According to the Book of Revelation, Apollyon would unleash a plague of monstrous locusts with lions' teeth, scorpion stings, iron armour – and human faces. Allowing for poetic licence, it's not a bad description of the Toclafane.

Raphael was taken captive by Apollyon. Turner explains. "For a year, the Lord of Time suffered, and his servants and all of humankind suffered with him. And on that day which would've been the day of destruction, our faith restored him. His strength was renewed, and he struck down Apollyon. He would have forgiven even the Destroyer, but the Wicked One rejected him, and perished. Then the Lord Raphael loosed the bonds of time, death itself was undone, and all our sorrow was turned to joy."

Jack gives Turner a hard stare. "You conveniently forgot to mention all of this when you were debriefed."

"I didn't know it then. I was still in darkness. It was only when my memory returned that I started to think about what all of it really meant. No job, and a lot of free time, so I did a ton of reading."

"You read a pile of books and decided that the Doctor was the Second Coming." Jack deliberately releases some of the frustration and anger he's been feeling. "He's an _alien_, Turner. Not a god or angel or devil or Father Christmas – an alien! He's more intelligent than a whole think-tank full of geniuses, he's telepathic, and he loves this planet way more than we deserve, but he's from another planet, not Heaven."

Turner lowers his head and hunches his shoulders, as if shrinking from a physical blow. Our of the corner of his eye, Jack can see Martha begin to speak, then snap her mouth shut.

"How do you know?" Turner's voice is barely audible.

"Know _what_?"

"How do you know he's not from Heaven?"

Jack ticks off the reasons on his fingers. "He feels fear. Loses his temper. Likes to show off. Cracks really bad jokes. And he makes mistakes – sometimes, big ones." _The kind of mistakes that lead to the death of innocents._

Turner shakes his head. "Sir, being sent by Heaven doesn't mean that someone's perfect. The angels are ascended beings – on a higher plane than humans – but they can make mistakes. How else could some of them have fallen?"

Jack is sure that there must be a fallacy in there somewhere, but religious debate is not his forte. He'd much rather do a problem in fifth-dimensional quantum geometry. In his head. While drunk.

"Look, I know you think I'm a nutter, but I'm not stupid," Turner says with a sudden burst of defiance. "I was in UNIT – I've seen aliens before. Sycorax. Cybermen. They've got all kind of weird tech and weapons, and some of them have got psychic powers. But what kind of alien looks exactly like a human being and can change reality for an entire planet?"

_A 900-year-old Time Lord, fuelled by desperation and the psychic energy of several billion humans._ Jack decides to save his own energy for what really matters.

"Okay. Setting aside the whole angel business, there's just one tiny little thing I don't understand, Turner." Jack's voice is quiet, but acidic enough to melt a Slitheen. "If you believe the Doctor saved this world – and he has done, more than once – why did you betray him? Why did you sell him to a damned reporter? Whatever he paid you, I hope you enjoyed spending it, because from this moment on I'm going to make sure that your every waking moment is spent in misery."

He strides forward, looming over the younger man. "You called me the Angel of Death. Before I'm done with you, you're gonna—"

"Jack!" Martha is beside him, laying a gentle hand on his arm. "Jack," she repeats, softer this time.

He controls himself. Over a century of waiting for the Doctor has taught him one kind of self-control. The hellish year on the _Valiant_ taught him another. He shakes off Martha's hand, but not roughly. He stills his racing thoughts, and switches from fire to ice. "Why did you betray him?"

Turner is visibly trembling now. Jack can't match the Doctor's Oncoming Storm glare, but he can do a damn good imitation, with more a century of anger and violence to draw on.

"I didn't— I wanted— I did it for him." Turner fixes wide, pleading eyes on Martha. "Ma'am, you walked the Earth – you told everyone about him. About all he's done for us. And then they _forgot_!"

"They were supposed to forget, Chris. That was part of setting things right. And the Doctor doesn't want to be famous. He'd hate it."

"When the Daleks were destroyed, and the Earth was returned, I knew it was him again. Healing us. Saving us." He bows his head for a moment. "And I did it for the human race. For a moment, he brought the whole planet together. I know a miracle like that can't happen again, but I thought, if people knew about him, they'd remember some of that unity. 'Cause we need it. We need it so much."

"We do," Martha agrees, "but it's not that simple."

"Did you stop to think what _else_ people might remember?" Jack demands. "Coventry? Denver? Frankfurt? Mombassa? _Japan_?"

Turner squeezes his eyes shut, as if doing so could block the images from his mind. Entire cities in flames. Japan burning, in the largest firestorm the planet had seen in aeons. "No! I didn't want— didn't mean—"

"You had _good intentions_," Jack says, spitting out the last two words, "but memories can be dangerous."

Martha tells the tale, pared down to essentials: the beloved companion who helped to save the worlds, stripped of thoughts and memories that could kill her if allowed to return. She does not speak Donna's name, and says nothing of a Human-Time Lord metacrisis.

The young man listens to her, pale and silent. At the end he stammers, "Oh, my God. Oh, merciful God and blessed angels. I didn't— what can I do? Please, what can I do?"

He can make a retraction, Jack says. He can go to Gareth Linton and tell him it isn't true. Tell him that it was a joke, a hallucination, a publicity stunt – anything that will make him pull the article.

Turner becomes even paler. "No… I can't lie, can't deny him. Knowing about the Lord Raphael is the one thing that's saved me since UNIT gave me the boot. He's given me a reason to keep going. A purpose." It isn't easy to strike a stiff, defiant pose while sitting on a battered sofa, but Turner manages it. "You can kill me or throw me in prison, but I won't lie for you."

"But you'll let an innocent woman die so you can keep your morals clean and tidy?" Jack demands.

Martha says with quiet urgency, "The Doctor wouldn't want that. I know him – we both do. He wouldn't care what you said about him, so long as it saved his friend's life."

Turner shakes his head. "He'll save her. The Lord Raphael will save her. This is a test of my faith. God, help me. Help me stay strong." He shuts his eyes, and his lips move in silent prayer.

Jack glowers at the younger man. Despite his threats, his options are limited. Turner's retraction must seem genuine. If he has visible injuries, if he disappears or dies in a sudden "accident", Linton will be suspicious. They need more than Turner's compliance; they need his cooperation. Jack mutters under his breath, and the words that emerge are not prayers.

…..

Ianto stands in the centre of Storage Room 4. The concrete walls are nearly invisible, lined as they are with shelves, cupboards, and boxes. Torchwood has one of the largest collections of alien artefacts in the world, but much of it is useless for his purpose. He can eliminate anything tagged as broken, purpose unknown, hazardous, or "likely to destroy the planet".

He rejects other items because they are too large, or need to be connected to a power source. _"Scuse me, Mr. Linton. Mind if I plug into your outlet here? Ta!"_ Some operate noisily, or have flashing lights that would be difficult to conceal. One emits odours that suggest a polecat drenched in cheap perfume. His hand wavers over the Grasken levitation belt, then withdraws. _Works well enough, but it looks like something out of Fireball XL5._ A moment later, he reaches up to one high shelf. _That might do._ In a drawer in the next room, he finds a piece of jewellery that makes him pause, then laugh out loud. _There's lovely. Just what Jack was wanting, isn't it?_

After much consideration, and searching two other storerooms, Ianto has a dozen possibilities for Jack to look over. He packs them carefully into a strongbox, and leaves it on his own desk. He want to be there to see Jack's face when he opens the box of possible props.

…..

Dr. Martha Jones paces the floor of a shabby flat in Hackney, frustration growing with every step. The "good cop/bad cop" routine hasn't been working. _Bloody miserable failure is what it is._ Jack has threatened; she has pleaded; Chris Turner cannot be swayed. _Stupid git sees himself as a martyr, suffering for his daft beliefs._ How could a man with a sharp mind and a technical education come up with such a load of rubbish? And how could a savvy journalist like Gareth Linton swallow it? _Apollyon and the Archangel Raphael, battling for the fate of the Earth._ The very sound of it is ridiculous, and she mentally substitutes their "worldly" names: the Master and the Doctor. "Oh, my God!"

Jack is instantly on alert. "What?"

She waves away his concern as she looks at Turner. "Chris, when you talked to Linton, did you use worldly names or heavenly names?"

He shrugs listlessly. "Worldly names. Had to, didn't I? He wouldn't have listened otherwise. Most minds have to stretch to let in spiritual truth – too much at once, and you wind up with breaking strain instead of enlightenment."

She says carefully, "So you talked about aliens instead of angels?"

"Yeah. It's not a lie. It's just a surface truth. Angels are alien to this world."

"You won't lie to Linton—" She holds up a hand to forestall his protest. "Would you tell him the truth?"

The bewilderment on Jack's face quickly transforms into a smile. "The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth!"

"He won't believe me," Turner objects. "He'll think I'm barmy!"

Dr. Martha Jones (also known as the Messenger, the World-Walker, and the Bringer of Hope) grins. "Yep. He will."

_tbc_


	5. Chapter 5

Jack pulls a mobile out of his coat pocket. "All right, boys and girls. Five minutes to curtain time. Everybody ready?" A babble of voices answer in the affirmative. He turns to the woman beside him. "Does my hair look all right?"

Sarah Jane smiles. "It should do – you used half a tube of gel on it." She surveys him, gaze moving carefully down from the carefully-disarranged hair to the brown pinstriped suit to the polished dress shoes. "Looking good, though I'm still getting used to the eyes. It's amazing. I wouldn't have thought that contact lenses and a suit could make such a difference, but you're another person entirely." The transformation is completed by carefully applied cosmetics that conceal the cleft in his chin and put some shadows under his dark brown eyes.

"Thank you, Miss Smith. You're very kind." She gapes at him, not because of the words, but the voice. The American accent is gone – replaced by London with a hint of Scots – educated, but not overly posh. It's also pitched a bit higher than his usual baritone.

Jack grins at her reaction. "I've been in this country for over a century," he says in his normal voice, "and I haven't spent all of it in Cardiff. Time Agency training put a lot of emphasis on learning languages and accents. It's important to blend in with the natives, especially in primitive societies."

Sarah Jane says with mock indignation, "Primitive? I'll show you primitive, mister." She pretends to swipe at him with her handbag. He pretends to look alarmed. Honour satisfied for the moment, they return to the serious task at hand.

...

Gareth Linton's flat is on a quiet street. It's tidy and comfortable enough, but to Sarah Jane's eye it clearly belongs to a single, workaholic man who uses it mostly as a place to sleep and keep his clothes. After greetings have been exchanged, and drinks offered and declined, she launches into her explanation. "This gentleman—" She gestures at Jack. "—wishes to be called John McDonald. He hasn't shared his real name with me."

Linton only nods. He's accustomed to informants who want to remain anonymous.

"Mr. McDonald rang me up several days ago. He had some concerns about your upcoming article. He didn't want to approach you directly, for reasons that he'll explain, so he asked me to be a sort of go-between."

"I read Miss Smith's series on the aftermath of the Cyberman invasion, and it seemed to me that she would be open but not gullible on the issue of alien contact," Jack says in a soft, hesitant voice. "I— this is rather awkward. I am what you might call middle management in a government office. I can't say which one, for obvious reasons, but I assure you it's nothing glamorous or secret. I am not a spy or a diplomat or a policy-maker." He appears to be studying the pattern of the wool rug beneath his feet.

Linton makes the standard reassurances about respecting confidences.

Jack nods. "I have reason to believe that you may be in possession of some photographs of me, perhaps heavily edited." He takes in a long, ragged breath, then expels it slowly. "I was aboard the _Valiant_ on the day when President Winters was killed. I was then serving as an assistant to an official whom I will not name, except to say that it was _not_ Harold Saxon." He raises his head and looks Linton directly in the eyes. "If – as I believe – you have those photos, then they were given to you by a young man whose mind was seriously disturbed by the terrible events of that day. He is convinced of many ludicrous and untrue things, not the least of which is that I myself am an alien."

"Mr. McDonald, are you trying to tell me that there was no alien activity involved in the death of President Winters? And in the recent return of the Earth to its proper location in space?" Linton's voice is polite, but challenging.

"Oh, there most certainly _was_ alien activity," Jack says earnestly. The corners of his mouth crook upwards in a wry smile. "I should know – I was at the centre of it. I know how melodramatic this will sound, but I was – there is no other word – possessed by an alien intelligence."

...

Sitting in front of the subwave terminal in the Hub, Ianto keys in a command. "Torchwood Three calling Luke. Do you read?"

"Loud and clear, Mr. Jones! Mr. Smith is ready, too."

A deep electronic voice replies, "I am presently blocking all incoming calls to that number. Transfer will be made when needed."

"Good. Stand by. Mr. Mott?"

"Haven't had such butterflies in my gut since before I took my first drop," the older man grumbles. "I'm ready."

"Gwen? _Sut dych chi_?"

"_Dim yn ddrwg_, but I think Mickey is having stage fright," she says.

"Oi! I am not!"

Ianto chuckles. "Break a leg, you two. Torchwood out."

...

"Possessed?" Gareth Linton echoes.

"I had the same reaction," Sarah Jane assures him. She turns to Jack. "Perhaps you should demonstrate?"

He sighs. "Yes, of course." He closes his eyes, concentrating. One hand rubs the other in what looks like a nervous gesture, and brushes against the large, ornate ring on his right hand. "Good afternoon, Mr. Gareth Linton." The voice coming from his lips is not one that could be produced by any human throat.

Sarah Jane represses a shiver, even though Jack has already demonstrated the Ergossian modulator ring to her. It's a musical instrument, designed to act on humanoid vocal cords. There are human devices that can accomplish the same thing, but not without visibly touching the mouth or throat.

Linton looks startled. "Not a half-bad trick. How's it done?"

"There is no deception. We are the Zajedir. We are not corporeal. To interact with your world, we must merge with a living host. This one—" Jack's hands move jerkily to indicate his seated form. "—has consented to host us. From the mind of this host, we have learned that most humans fear merging. There is no need for fear." The "Zajedir" explain that very few humans are psychically compatible with them, that they can only enter a willing host, and that they cannot tolerate corporeality for very long. Jack's head tilts to one side. "This host says it is like wearing shoes that have become too small." Jack gazes down at his brown oxfords as if they are strange and exotic items.

"We do not often interfere with the affairs of the younger races. But in some cases, it is necessary to keep the balance of the—" The last "word" is a high-pitched trill. "When the human called Saxon invited the Toclafane into this world, that created an imbalance. When the Daleks moved this world and many others, that was a greater imbalance. To correct this, we needed hosts."

Gareth Linton frowns. "But those hosts would still be ordinary human beings. Even with your advanced knowledge, how could they possibly repel an alien invasion – _two_ alien invasions?"

"When we are in a physical form, there are abilities that we can manifest."

Sarah Jane gasps. The chair where Jack was sitting is now empty. _What the hell?_

"Where'd he go?" Linton demands. "What kind of joke are you two playing?"

A voice comes from the far side of the sitting room. "I am here." Jack is standing in the doorway, motionless, face impassive. He vanishes, only to reappear in the chair. "And now I am here."

Linton's face is pale. "Oh my God! You really are—"

"Why would we say that which is not so?" Jack's expression is one of mild curiosity.

"I have so many questions for you." Linton snatches up a notebook.

"Ask, and we will answer."

And Linton asks. For an hour he shoots out a stream of intelligent, incisive questions. Jack answers, never hesitating, never breaking character. Sarah Jane thinks that there's probably no one else on the planet who could pull this off, unless there's another 51st century time-traveller around who has a hundred and fifty years' experience with alien life forms. Even the Doctor couldn't do as well, even though he has many more centuries of experience. _He'd want to show off, and he'd overdo it and babble, and it'd all go pear-shaped._

At the end of his soliloquy, Jack fixes Linton with a cold, impersonal stare. "You may communicate all of these things to other humans, but you may not reveal the identities of those humans who have served as our hosts. Your race is still young and ignorant. Humans who fear us might fear the hosts also, They might believe that we remain in the hosts. Humans who fear are dangerous to other humans."

"No names, no photos," Linton promises. "This is tremendous. My God…"

Sarah Jane opens her purse and fumbles inside it for a tissue. In the process, she flips open her mobile and presses one pre-programmed button. Two minutes later the doorbell chimes. Linton excuses himself.

There's a commotion at the door: one raised voice, then two, then a man is rushing into the sitting room. His snowy white hair and beard would make for a splendid pantomime Father Christmas, though it would have to be a very unusual production to dress the old gent in baggy jeans stiff enough to stand on their own, a Hawaiian shirt, and an ancient smoking jacket sprinkled liberally with gin.

Linton's face is red with anger. "Get out, you bloody lunatic, or I'll phone the police!"

Wilf ignores him. He halts three feet in front of the sofa where Jack and Sarah Jane are sitting, but all of his attention is focused on Jack. "Liar!" Turning to Linton, he says, "Tryin' to fool you… they're all liars, bloody liars… don't believe 'em… say they want to 'elp us… don't trust none of 'em. Murdering alien monsters, an' the ones that look human are the worst of all."

Sarah Jane doesn't have to pretend to look frightened. _I hope to God his hand is steady._ Aloud, she says, "Why don't you calm down, and tell me about it? My name's Sarah Jane Smith. I'm a journalist, and I'm very interested in aliens."

At the same time Linton snaps, "Don't humour him!"

"They lie!" Wilf bellows. "They all lie. They killed my Janie! Murderers!" And on the last word, he pulls a revolver from his jacket pocket and shoots Jack in the forehead.

Sarah Jane lets out a piercing scream that makes her feel thirty years younger. The gun falls from Wilf's hand, and he crumples to the floor, like a marionette whose strings have been cut. He clasps his bony knees and rocks back and forth, moaning incoherently.

Sarah Jane grabs Jack's wrist. "There's no pulse!"

Linton reaches for the throat where the carotid pulse should be. He curses and heads for the phone. "Get the gun." He stabs out 999.

A young man with a Welsh accent answers on the first ring. "Hello. What service do you need? Ambulance, police, fire—"

"Ambulance…police. A man's been shot. I think he's dead. Hurry. Please!"

The calm, polite voice assures him that help is on the way.

Sarah Jane snatches up the gun, then stands in front of the bookcase rather than sit back on the sofa where Jack's inert form is slumped sideways. The Webley has no safety, so she opens it cautiously, as if to unload it. "That was the only bullet," she says with a nervous laugh, and set the gun on one of the higher shelves. She waves a trembling hand at Wilf, still rocking and moaning on the floor. "Should we… do something?"

Linton shakes his head, and sinks down into his chair. "Leave him as he is until the police come." Sweat is beading on his pale face.

Jack lets out a groan and sits up with a jerk. Sarah Jane shrieks. Her reaction is genuine, even though she knew what was coming; she's never seen Jack resurrect before.

Linton lets out a choked gasp. The gaping wound in Jack's forehead begins to contract, squeezing out the bullet just before it seals itself. Without glancing down, Jack catches the bullet. He holds it out on his outstretched palm, offering it to Linton. The man takes it in stunned silence.

"If we had not been merged at the time of the wounding, this host would be dead," Jack says. His voice is calm, as if picking up the threads of a conversation that was interrupted by nothing more traumatic than a doorbell.

"And when you… leave?" Linton asks.

"He will be as before. Fragile, as all humans are fragile. This is why hosts must not be known to other humans."

There is a rapping on the half-open door, and two uniformed people enter the flat. One of them, a dark-haired woman, calls out, "Police! What's this about a shooting, then?"

Sarah Jane strides forward, before Linton can speak. "The three of us were having a meeting when this maniac—" She gestures at Wilf. "—barged in. He started shouting some gibberish about aliens, and then he took out a gun and shot at Mr. McDonald here. Naturally, he ducked, and I think perhaps he passed out—"

"He suffers from low blood pressure," Linton interjects. He lowers his voice. "I believe the poor fellow is still in a bit of a daze."

"I'm afraid we assumed the worst," Sarah Jane confesses, with just a hint of chagrin. "It must have been a blank, since he wasn't hit, and there's no sign of a bullet hole in the wall."

"Better safe than sorry, miss," Gwen says soberly. "That's what 999 is for, isn't it?" She collects the Webley while Mickey hauls the unresisting Wilf to his feet. Sarah Jane can see that he is suppressing a grin as he snaps the handcuffs on.

Gwen rattles off the familiar words. "I am arresting you on suspicion of possession of a firearm with intent to cause fear of violence. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence…" When she finishes reciting the caution, she and Mickey begin to lead their prisoner to the door.

"Wait." Jack approaches them. He stands silently. They wait, almost motionless, no sign of impatience or concern or curiosity on their faces. "Thank you," Jack says, as if concluding a conversation, and they continue on their way.

When the flat door is safely closed, Jack returns to sit on the sofa. "They will forget. They will take him home, and dispose of the weapon, and then they will forget. They will report that some children were playing with firecrackers."

"And the one who shot you— shot Mr. McDonald?" Linton asks.

"He will forget coming here; forget his intention to do harm. He will not forget his pain. Some things are rooted too deeply to be safely removed. Human minds are fragile." Jack's forehead furrows. "We must leave. Healing the damage to the host drained our energy. We will leave the host and leave your world, Gareth Linton. Remember our words. Farewell." Jack shudders. "God, I really need a drink," he says in John McDonald's human voice.

Linton breaks out a Christmas-present bottle of 15-year-old Laphroaig, and fills three glasses. They drink in silence, and when Jack and Sarah Jane rise to take their leave, Linton does not press them to stay. Sarah Jane recognizes the look in his eyes as the restlessness of a journalist who needs to get his hands on a keyboard _now_. She's seen it in her mirror often enough.

As they are descending the staircase. Jack stiffens.

"Jack? What's wrong?"

"Damn! I bled on Ianto's favourite tie. He's going to kill me."

Sarah Jane laughs, almost giddy with relief. "And then he'll get over it," she assures him cheerfully, "and so will you."

_t__bc_


	6. Chapter 6

On Saturday they gather earlier than usual for the weekly meeting. It's in the Hub this time, and everyone is present. Luke is thrilled to finally meet Myfanwy, and Sarah Jane gives reluctant permission for him to feed chocolate to the pterodactyl. She feels better when Ianto promises to supervise the encounter.

Everyone is on edge, unable to relax until they see the article. "The proof of the pudding..." Gwen says. Luke wants to know what sort of pudding it is and if he may have some. The friendly laughter that follows does a great deal to reduce the level of tension in the room.

Ianto has hacked into the _Chronicle_'s computer system, and is ready to intercept the article as soon as it is transmitted. If it's "unsatisfactory", they can go to Plan B: Mr. Smith will engineer a power failure in the _Chronicle_ building, and Wilf and Martha will go to Chiswick and transport Donna to a UNIT medical facility, under sedation, if necessary. Nobody likes the idea, but if the worst happens, it will keep Donna alive and sane.

"Incoming transmission." Ianto's quiet voice jolts everyone to attention as effectively as a blaring siren. "Intercepting." The screen in front of him fills with text.

Luke peers over Ianto's shoulder, his eyes skimming the article faster than any graduate of a speed-reading class. "It's okay," he announces. "There's nothing about the Doctor or the TARDIS."

Ianto's printer is spitting out copies, and soon everyone is examining the article for themselves. A collective sigh goes around the room. "Thank God," Wilf mutters, and Jack says something under his breath in the language of his homeworld.

"Better send it on," Sarah Jane says. "We don't want to make anyone suspicious with the delay."

Two clicks, and the screen is blank. "Ladies and gentlemen," Jack announces, "it's party time. Ianto, break out the bubbly." Within a few minutes, everyone has been served with a celebratory glass (lemonade for Luke), and the toasting has begun.

Jack raises a glass in Sarah Jane's direction. "To my lovely co-star. You deserve an BAFTA for that magnificent performance."

She salutes him with her own glass. "You deserve two awards for that double role. _I_ was almost ready to believe you were an alien."

"How do you know I'm not?" he replies in the eerie, inhuman voice of the Zajedir.

Sarah Jane laughs out loud and Mickey sputters. Martha nearly chokes on a mouthful of champagne. Grinning, Jack tugs the Ergossian ring off his hand and tosses it to Ianto. "That can go back to storage."

"What I want to know," Martha says, "is how you managed that teleport. I thought the Doctor deactivated your Vortex Manipulator?"

"He did, the old spoilsport. I used a M'rill jump-belt."

"The one that came through the Rift last year? You said that was broken," Gwen protests.

"It is. Right now it has a maximum range of five metres. Absolutely useless, except for cheap tricks."

Mickey raises his glass. "To cheap tricks."

"To our talented supporting artists," Sarah Jane replies. "Here's to Constables Cooper and Smith."

"And to my favourite murdering maniac," Jack says, with a nod towards Wilf. On the target range, the old man had proven to have a good eye and a steady hand, much to Jack's relief. The charade had required a good shot. Jack would have been willing to endure the pain of a slow, messy death, but the more time that elapsed between shot and resurrection, the more chance there was for something to go wrong.

Jack had insisted on one "live" rehearsal. He knew from long experience that many people who were crack shots on the practice range found it difficult to put a bullet into another human being, and it had been many decades since Wilf had been in combat. He had discovered that Wilf had no problem shooting Jack in the head. _I think he could have done it even if I weren't immortal – if that's what it took to save Donna._ The thought doesn't disturb him at all. He respects people who know what they are willing to kill for – or die for – and he trusts such people more than those who have never had to face the issue.

…..

Martha joins in the celebration, but feels oddly apart from it. Alone of the members of CoT, she had no active part in the charade. She spent most of Friday at the UNIT hospital, babysitting Chris Turner. She whisked him away as soon as he told the "whole truth" to Gareth Linton. It was partly to keep him incommunicado, but also to arrange for a full psychiatric evaluation. It's her responsibility as a doctor, and as a member of UNIT. Chris Turner was wounded in the course of duty, just as surely as if he'd been shot by an enemy weapon. Whatever is done with him – and that's yet to be decided – must take that into account.

So she sips champagne, and joins in the toasting and the merriment, but though she genuinely rejoices in the plan's success, part of her is still in London, in a hospital room with no windows and a locked door.

She spends the night in a local hotel. The following day she texts Jack. _Lunch BlueCowCafe?_ _EOTWSC meeting._ She starts to add _Come alone_, then backspaces and deletes it. Jack knows better than to bring outsiders to a meeting of the End of the World Survivors Club.

The restaurant is in an office district, and though it's normally packed on weekdays, on Sundays it's three-quarters empty. Martha arrives first, and gets a comfortable table in the back, away from curious eyes and ears.

Jack greets her with a smile and a kiss. "What's up? Not that I need an excuse to have lunch with a gorgeous woman…"

"Chris Turner. What happens next?"

He stiffens slightly. "Why ask me? He's UNIT. Not my responsibility."

"He's a member of the club, Jack. I don't want to make this decision alone, and I don't want to consult some UNIT officer who doesn't remember the Year and has no idea what Turner went through."

"What do the shrinks say?" Jack asks cautiously.

She sighs. "They say he still has Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, but his symptoms are 'markedly less severe' than they were before – even when the Retcon was still working."

"And his delusions?"

"Technically, he's not delusional." Martha sees the expression on Jack's face, and holds up a hand to ward of his protests. "I know, I know. It sounds pretty weird, but you can't call something a delusion if it's based on reality, Jack."

"Reality? I'm starting to think you're losing your grip on it, Dr. Jones. He says the Doctor is an _archangel_."

"Yeah. And his definition of an archangel is a member of a race so advanced that they can alter time and causality on a massive scale. Sound like anybody we both know?" She falls silent as the waitress hurries over with their plates. "Turner understands that his interpretation of events sounds bizarre to anyone who wasn't there. He's able to deal calmly with 'non-believers'. He can function in a normal, unstructured setting, and he's not a danger to himself or others—"

"—as long as he keeps his mouth shut," Jack says.

Martha nods. "That's the bottom line. I think we can trust him."

"_Think_ isn't good enough. We have to be absolutely sure, Martha. It's Donna's life."

"I know. Damn it, Jack… I just don't want to see another life ruined. Not if I can do something to help." The alternative, she knows, is some kind of confinement. It wouldn't be hard to arrange. Turner violated the Official Secrets Act by talking to a reporter.

Jack reaches across the table and clasps both of her hands between his. "That's what makes you a good doctor," he says softly.

"I don't feel like much of a doctor right now," she says, staring down at her linguini carbonara.

"Think of it as triage," Jack suggests. "Sometime you have to sacrifice one patient to save another."

"There has to be a way to save them both," she insists. "If I can just guarantee that Turner will keep quiet."

Jack shrugs. "I'd threaten him again if I thought it would do any good."

"Threats won't work… Jack!"

"What?"

"How do you feel about a bit of blackmail?"

He leans back in his chair. "I'm your man." Flashing a wicked grin, he adds, "you can take that any way you like. Who's the target?"

As Martha explains her plan, Jack's grin grows wider and wider.

…..

Martha stands in the hospital's reception area. "Thanks for coming. Jack explained the situation, didn't he?"

"He did." The visitor sounds unhappy, but resigned. "I suppose it's necessary."

"I can't see any other option. Fortunately, the reporter didn't believe him, but we can't risk it happening again. This way." Martha walks briskly down the hallway, stopping in front of a closed door. She shows her ID, and gestures for the soldier on guard duty to unlock the door. "Chris? It's Doctor Jones. I've brought you a visitor."

Chris Turner, dressed in loose-fitting fatigues without insignia, looks up from the chair where he has been listlessly skimming through a paperback novel. For one split second, he freezes, and then it's as though he's been struck by an electric current. The book falls to the floor, and the chair nearly topples over as he scrambles out of it, then drops to his knees. "My Lord!"

"No… please, don't. Stand up, there's a good chap. I just want to have a word."

"I'll leave you two to chat," Martha says cheerily, ignoring the look of barely-concealed panic that the Doctor is shooting in her direction.

Jack is in the staff lounge, frowning at a cup of murky coffee. "How's he taking it?"

Martha correctly interprets which 'he' Jack is referring to. "He looked miserable. I'm starting to feel guilty."

"Don't," Jack says firmly. "He's survived worse in nine hundred years. It's just a two-minute conversation, and then he'll be off to the tranquil purple beaches of Epsilon Eridani in the thirty-seventh century."

"Jack, you didn't tell him about CoT, did you?"

"And have the full wrath of the Oncoming Storm descend on me? Do I _look_ crazy? Don't answer that."

Martha doesn't answer, because she is distracted by an issue of medical ethics. It's dreadful of her to even think of such a thing. Still, she can't help wondering… since they all know about Chris Turner's case, would it _really _violate patient confidentiality to bring a copy of today's security video to the next CoT meeting? Reluctantly, she decides that it would.

They both turn as they hear the Doctor's rapid footsteps in the hallway. The Time Lord enters the lounge. He nods stiffly at his former companions. "All right. He's given me his promise, and I believe him. Even took a quick peek to make sure." He makes a sour face.

Martha gives him a quick hug. "Thanks, Doctor. I appreciate you making the trip."

He shrugs, thawing slightly. "I was in Cardiff, refuelling. Not much of a detour to hop over to London." He begins edging out of the room. "Gotta run. I have a little errand on Perkhad VI."

"Perkha—" Jack stares. "The Chula homeworld? Doctor— _nanogenes_?"

The Doctor shrugs again. "They might be able to do something for Donna. If I give their biotechs DNA samples, they can try to custom design something. But even then, might not work. There are just too many unknown variables."

"While there's life, there's hope," Martha says quietly. "You taught me that one, Doctor."

He nods. "Right then. Carry on, Dr. Jones. Captain…"

"Sir!" Jack snaps to attention, and executes a regulation salute – with a very unmilitary grin on his face.

The Doctor sighs. "Try not to get into _too_ much trouble." And then he is gone.

"Well, I have some discharge papers to fill out," Martha says, "and then I should tend to the reports in my inbox, before they reach critical mass."

"And I have to get back to Cardiff before the contents of my inbox break free and start terrorizing all of South Wales."

"It's not like this in the movies," Martha grumbles, as they emerge from the lobby into the weak sunlight of an early November morning. "No one ever warned me that saving the Earth would involve so much bloody paperwork."

"Some things remain consistent throughout the galaxies, across the farthest reaches of space and time," Jack intones.

"Shut it, Harkness. I'll bet Luke Skywalker never had to fill out Form 2078-B in triplicate."

"That's what you think. Wait until you see the 75th anniversary edition – director's cut. Then you'll see the _real_ reason that everyone was so terrified of the Emperor."

Her delighted laughter follows him down the pavement, until it is swallowed by the noise and bustle of ordinary humans going about their ordinary day.

-- THE END --


End file.
